


May Flowers

by LoversAntiquities



Series: Lonesome Roads [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Confessions, Creature Castiel, Depression, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Injured Sam Winchester, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Prosthesis, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-13 20:37:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13578495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: With winter comes the cold, and with cold comes thoughts Castiel can't help but ruminate in, despite his best instincts telling him otherwise. Seeing Sam in the aftermath of the fire, though, unnerves him to the point of contemplating just what it would feel like, to bleed himself dry.But then there's Dean, his rock in the storm, always there when Castiel needs him. And for their future, Castiel thinks he can live, just so he can see the sunrise again.





	May Flowers

Sam arrives on the first day of spring a year later, driving a silver rental Corolla from the Enterprise by the airport. The only reason Castiel knows it’s him, is because Dean sprints from the kitchen and out the front door, all before Castiel can pull himself from the mattress for the third day in a row, their shared bed more comfortable than having to face the living.

Through the bedroom window, Castiel watches Dean open the driver’s side door and Sam step out, albeit lethargically, the two embracing like long lost friends. For Castiel, it’s the first time he’s seen Sam outside of a Skype call or FaceTime on Dean’s phone. Just as tall as he was before, but with a slight limp, each step methodical and precise. Sam’s gait shouldn’t be the what’s most shocking about him. Castiel should be enamored that Sam has returned home for a month, not about how he walks.

The front door opens. At the foot of the bed, Salem chirps herself awake and, stretching, jumps off the bed with a thump. Probably Castiel’s cue to move as well, if only his body would let him. With the changing seasons comes changing attitudes, and with the switch from winter to spring should bring along with it brighter spirits with the warmer temperatures and longer sunlight.

Yet, Castiel hasn’t been able to hold a conversation for a week, his mind slipping between thoughts, to the point of worrying Dean constantly. Dean shouldn’t have to worry over him, but he does, and Castiel both loves and hates him for it. Oh, to fall for the one man in the world who could care for martyrs.

Castiel makes sure to grab his pajama pants before dragging himself from bed, careful to make himself presentable in the small mirror beside the television. Not that he had to impress anyone, but depression has never been a good look on him, nor a good mindset. Dean can only help him so much, though he tries his best.

Slipping on a pair of socks, Castiel exits the bedroom and wanders his way into the living room, where Dean stands in front of the television and Sam sits on the couch, both sweatpant legs pulled up, one prosthetic sitting on the footstool while he unlatches the other and sets it aside.

Castiel swallows, skin suddenly clammy. Not only did the fire claim a portion of Dean’s skin, but it took both of Sam’s legs with it, feet replaced with metal and plastic, covered by barely-worn sneakers. Guilt plagues him even more than the day he reunited with Dean—this is his fault. All of it, this house, his family, was caused by his moment of weakness, his absolute stupidity.

How is he supposed to live with this, knowing that if he had stayed, then Sam and Dean could’ve lived normal lives, or as normal as they could’ve been?

“Cas,” Sam calls from the other side of the room, arms outstretched. His face, unlike Dean’s, is relatively untouched, and his hair is cut short, shorter than Castiel has ever seen it, just long enough behind his ears to curl. If only the age lines didn’t date him, didn’t make him look old beyond his years.

Wary, Castiel plasters on his best smile and crosses the room, leaning down enough to bring Sam into a crushing hug; Sam almost drags him onto the couch with the force of it, laughing all the while. “It’s good to see you again,” Sam says, giddy, slapping Castiel’s back once. “Feels like it’s been forever.”

“Sometimes it seems that way,” Castiel adds, pulling away.

Pointedly, he ignores Sam’s prosthetics as he rounds the footstool, seating himself at Sam’s side. Never once had Dean mentioned the extent of Sam’s injuries in the fire—if anything, Dean hasn’t spoken about it at all, only saying that he did his best to drag Sam out. Nothing about the loss of limbs, nothing about his own burns. More secrets—another discussion Castiel doesn’t want to have. All he wants to do is sleep and to listen to Dean’s breathing, the only thing that keeps him sane.

“Sammy’s gonna stay in the guest room while he’s here,” Dean announces, clearing his throat. Castiel turns his attention to Dean and the joy there, concentrates on that and that alone. “That good with you?”

“That’s great,” Castiel says, hands in his lap. Briefly, he looks to Sam, lips turned up as far as he can manage. “I’m glad you’re here, Sam.”

Sam just grins, all teeth and the happiness Castiel wishes he could feel. _It’s just the weather_ , Castiel tells himself. This will pass, as everything else has.

 _This will pass_.

-+-

“I started my own practice two years ago,” Sam says, beer in hand as he walks paths in the grass. Stretching, he’d said; if the temperature drops below sixty, he has to keep moving or his knees will lock up. Another thing Castiel can’t heal, another thing Castiel couldn’t save him from. “I did summer semesters and overloaded my schedule so I could graduate early. Busted my ass, but I passed the bar and I hired a few people on.”

“That’s great,” Castiel says from the glider. Salem sits with him, her head resting on his thigh, while Dean talks on the phone indoors, his voice occasionally audible through the screen door. The first warm day in a month, and Castiel intends to take full advantage of it while he can, before the weather fluctuates again and leaves him stuck in bed. “I’m proud of you, Sam.”

Sam laughs under his breath, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. “I’m happy,” he says, making his way to the glider. Salem refuses to leave her spot, and only with Castiel’s insistence does she move just the slightest, allowing Sam to sit. “For the first time in my life, I’m… really happy, y’know? I worked hard to get where I am, and I know Dean’s proud, but… It really means the world, knowing you’re here too.”

Just barely, Castiel offers a smile, mostly in his eyes. “I never should’ve left either of you,” he says. Sam’s expression falls, the light in his face souring. “But I look at you, at how far both you and Dean have come without me… and I’m glad, that you could move on, that you made a life for yourself outside of hunting.”

“Hey.” Sam pats Castiel’s knee, squeezing it through his pant leg. “Don’t talk like that, alright? I’m sure it would’ve ended up like this either way.”

Castiel sighs. “You don’t know that though,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I could’ve helped you, both of you. I could’ve…”

“Is this about my legs?” Sam asks, no trace of shame on his face. Castiel flushes with embarrassment, turning away. “C’mon, Cas. It’s not that big of a deal, really. It took me a few months, but I’ve been up and on my feet for years like nothing happened.”

“What did happen?” Castiel questions, still just as ashamed. Through the pines, the wind blows, and Salem looks up to watch a hawk on a branch. “Dean told me there was a fire, but he never said you were hurt.”

At that, Sam shrugs, leaning back into the mesh seat. “He doesn’t like to think about it, I guess. He’s happy I’m alive, but… It’s just another thing to add to his list, y’know? We still don’t know what it was, demon or angel, but they got into the HVAC system, filled the entire place with some sort of flammable gas. They were gone by the time everything went up, but Dean dragged me out and shoved me into the backseat. Didn’t realize until we got to the hospital because of the adrenaline, but…”

“The doctors couldn’t save them,” Castiel suggests.

Sam nods in reply, rubbing one of his stumps tenderly. “A beam fell below both knees, so I got to keep those, but the rest was a total loss.” A sigh, followed by a laugh in disbelief. “Honestly, I think it helped both of us. Little harsh for a wakeup call, but we needed it. I had to concentrate on walking again, and Dean had to get a few dozen skin grafts.”

Castiel swallows, unexpectedly lightheaded. “What happened to him?” he asks, much to Sam’s confusion. “He hasn’t talked about the aftermath, just that the bunker collapsed.”

“Oh.” Sam mulls it over, eyes to the cloudless March sky. “Third degree burns. He had gun oil on his shirt and it just went up with everything else. He won’t admit to it, but it really tore him up. He blamed himself for it.”

Slowly, Castiel nods, hands in his lap. None of that was Dean’s fault—if anyone had to bear the blame, it was Castiel for leaving in the first place, for not protecting them when they needed it. Attempted murder in their sleep, and now all they had was the scars to remind them of a past they couldn’t forget. A past that Castiel regrets ever getting involved in.

But they had a future now. A future apart and in completely separate time zones, but a future filled with hope, a new beginning. “Are you really happy?” Castiel asks, locking his fingers together. “After everything you’ve been through, all of us… Are you happy?”

It takes a minute, but Sam nods. “I think I am,” he admits, turning to Castiel. “Doesn’t hurt that you’re back, too. We really missed you, man. My only regret is that we gave up looking.”

“You wouldn’t have found me,” Castiel says, forlorn. Sam rubs his shoulder, an attempt at comfort that Castiel barely feels. “I wish I could’ve returned sooner. I’ve been alive for longer than the universe as we know it, but… Those five years were the longest of my life.”

Sam hums, the noise drowning into the wind. “All that matters,” he says, slow, “is that you’re here now. And we’re here for you, just like you’re here for us. You know that?”

Reluctantly, Castiel nods. It may be the truth, but he can’t bring himself to believe it, not when it hurts this much, his inhuman heart conflicted and tired, so tired. “I know,” he says, head bowed. Salem paws at his hands; Sam draws him into a one-armed embrace. “I know.”

-+-

Killing himself doesn’t work, not in Castiel’s experience, at least. Almost nightly, Castiel leaves the sanctuary of his and Dean’s bed and shuts himself in the half bathroom, digging his nails into his wrists until blood hits the sink basin. Not suicide, per se, but self-mutilation, just enough pain to take the edge off of living, to feel something again that isn’t his own despair.

Tonight, Castiel watches the gashes in his wrist through clouded eyes, the red spilling from his veins reminiscent to the tracks cascading down his cheeks, dripping onto the countertop. It hurts—it’s not enough. Not enough to repent, to cure himself of the countless betrayals wrought on all of his friends, his family—himself. Nothing he did aside from driving a spike through his heart could ever make it better, no matter how hard he tries or loves, or accepts reality.

Sam and Dean are alive and healthy, yes, but at what cost? They could’ve died, and Castiel would have been reborn to walk the earth, alone, waiting for the day someone smote him, released his atoms into the ether.

 _Purgatory would be more pleasant than here_ , Castiel thinks.

With a shaking hand, Castiel tears into himself again, thumbing down the soft underside of his wrist until he bleeds. The other wounds have recovered, nothing left behind aside from blood and a faded, barely-there scar. Scars Dean hasn’t seen, and if he has, he hasn’t interrogated Castiel over it. They have their fair share of wounds they never intend to discuss, anyway.

A spasm shoots up Castiel’s arm as soon as he lets go, red dripping off his fingers and trailing red down the drain. Somehow, Dean’s sudden entrance doesn’t faze him, his attention solely focused on the pain coursing through his body and his stinging eyes.

“Cas,” Dean says, rough and distraught. Dean has every right to be afraid, has every right to scold Castiel, to yell and scream and throw punches until Castiel lays bleeding on the floor in his own misery, and Castiel would take it. Would revel in it, if it meant Dean felt better in the end.

He does none of those things, though. Instead, Dean coaxes Castiel away from the sink and draws Castiel into his arms. Warm, sturdy, a rock. Castiel falls into him with ease, eyes welling over to soak the sleeve of Dean’s nightshirt. “You’ve gotta talk to me,” Dean begs, voice cracking around the edges, and Castiel breaks, not for Dean’s sadness, but knowing that he was the cause of it. Arms around Castiel’s neck, Dean continues, softer now, “I know something’s wrong, but you won’t say anything.”

“I feel too much,” Castiel says, throat thick. His breaths turn to sobs, chest heaving. “I feel everything, and nothing, and I want it to stop.”

“Cas…”

“I don’t know what I am,” Castiel weeps. Violently, he claws at the back of Dean’s shirt, threatening to rip the threads. “But I feel, and I’m ashamed. This is—”

“Hey.” In a rush, Dean pulls away, only to cup Castiel’s face in both hands. Thumbing away the tears, Dean smiles, or at least tries. It’s more than Castiel can say for himself. “What happened to us, it’s not your fault. Nothing could’ve stopped what happened that night, you hear me?”

Castiel shakes his head, pointedly looking away. “It’s not fair,” he says, mournful. “Leaving you wasn’t fair. Both of you. I was selfish, I shouldn’t have left you. I should’ve died like I was supposed to—”

“Whoa, whoa. No one’s dying here, you hear me?” Gently, Dean presses a kiss between Castiel’s eyes, and Castiel shudders, a fresh wave of tears pouring free. A brief pause; all Castiel can hear is Dean’s breathing and his own ragged heartbeat, pounding a stuttered rhythm against his ribcage. If only Dean would stop looking at him—if only Dean were blind, then Castiel might be able to face him without shame. “What’s wrong? What’s…”

“I’m tired,” is all Castiel can manage. Without a fight, he pulls free of Dean’s touch and turns his back, facing the small, rectangular window above the toilet. “I just… don’t want this life anymore. Knowing how much I’ve hurt you, both of you.”

Dean doesn’t speak, not for a long, pregnant minute. He remains close regardless, stepping barefooted across the tile floor to loop his arms around Castiel’s middle, forehead pressed to Castiel’s nape. There, they breathe and Castiel cries, surrounded by love he doesn’t deserve. Undeniable, real.

“I’m here, Cas,” Dean whispers, fisting the front of Castiel’s shirt. “Please, just… I need to know you’re okay. I don’t wanna lose you like this, not…”

“I can’t die,” Castiel laughs, thick in his throat. “I’m not an Angel, but I can’t die. What kind of life is this?”

“This is your life.” Just above Castiel’s shirt collar, Dean kisses his nape, lips just as sweet as ever. “You’re here, with me, and with Sammy. You’re breathing, and you’re living, and… God, I love you too much to see you hurt.”

Love. Dean loves him, and it’s all Castiel has ever wanted, but he doesn’t deserve it. No one deserves to love a martyr, and no one deserves to love him. “I love you,” Castiel repeats, gasping through the fear. “I love you, love you—”

Dean’s kiss tastes like lemon lozenges, too much teeth, too rough of a touch, but Castiel takes it all, swallows every breath Dean feeds him. All Castiel can do is cling to him, hands in Dean’s hair when Dean hoists him onto the countertop. Never once do they separate—never once does Castiel let him go.

-+-

Muckalee Creek runs through a long, winding thicket of trees spread throughout Lee County, shrouded in darkness even in the brightest of days. Some days when Dean isn’t working, the two of them will drive to the banks and just sit in each other’s company, skipping rocks and admiring the few fish attempting to swim with the current. Once, Castiel watched a copperhead wind its way downstream, escaping into the underbrush and out of sight.

Today, a lone howl hoots from somewhere in the forest while a steady breeze blows, bringing with it early spring temperatures and the first hope Castiel has felt in months. Years, if he’s really counting, from a time long since passed.

Sans prosthetics, Sam sits along the bank and reaches into the silt, pulling out stones smooth enough to skip across the deeper pools. In the sunlight filtering through the trees, Castiel can just barely see his scars, previously invisible under fluorescent lighting. A section of his forehead has been grafted in the past, along with a significant chunk of the back of his neck, previously hidden by hair, but now exposed to the elements. His hands fare the worst of it, though, scarred ridges standing out where once, his skin was pristine, or as much as it could have been. Broken glass, from the looks of it; how it happened, Castiel can only imagine.

But he’s healthy, and whole. Dean is there as well, standing in the middle of the creek with his jeans rolled up to his knees, the water just barely reaching halfway up his calf. Too cold for swimming or even wading, but Dean doesn’t seem to care in the slightest.

This is more than Castiel could had ever wished for. This is his family, together again for the first time in six years—this is where his home has always been.

“Dude, you’re blooming,” Dean mentions, breaking Castiel from his stupor to find dandelions growing between his fingers, yellow flowers and all. Lifting his hand only makes the plants follow him, the stems reaching up to the sky, pointing in the direction of the nearest sunbeam.

Sam watches, a brow quirked, but nonetheless amused. “You look a lot better today,” he starts, bending his knees over the creek’s edge. “Happier. Something happen?”

Is he happier? All morning, Castiel has mulled over the thought, over the strange warmth in his chest, brought on by the sun and Dean’s vigorous touch. Looking to the sky, he hums a wordless tune, and flowers begin to sprout again, spreading farther along the banks. Daisies, dandelions, tulips, non-native species to the area, but now they flourish, all from Castiel’s unbridled energy. Hopefully, they’ll survive long after he’s gone.

Dean glances to him subtly, a question waiting in his eyes. Castiel answers it with a laugh, pained as it is. But there’s happiness there, a joy just as unfamiliar as the power flowing through him, enhanced by the sun. “I think I’m starting to… recover, maybe.” He shrugs and looks to the sky, a sunbeam glancing off his face. “I’ve decided I don’t like winter.”

“No one does, buddy,” Dean chuckles, alight in mirth.

Castiel knows the fear behind his eyes, though, the prior night still fresh in both of their minds. At least at his lowest, Dean is always there for him, and vice versa, given time. Just the thought of having to see Dean break down is enough to unsettle him, knowing that if it came down to it, Dean would rather die than see his world collapse again. And if the time comes, Castiel will talk him down, will hold him until the urge subsides and they can rest in each other’s space, until the sun rises.

They really were meant for each other, in every way. Somehow, Castiel finds peace in that, knowing that his death wasn’t in vain, that this new life wasn’t a complete mistake. After all, they’re still together—they’re still in love.

“What if you guys made a pond?” Sam suggests, catching Castiel’s attention.

“What’m I gonna do with a pond?” Dean asks. Hands on his hips, he looks to Castiel, then to Sam. “The cat’ll eat the fish, you know that.”

Sam shrugs. “Not if you get the big ones. Look, last year when Cas first called, I started looking into my notes, and based on the whole… flower thing,” he stops to wave his hand at the rose bush currently growing at Castiel’s back, “I’m thinking faerie?”

At that, Dean snorts, a hand over his mouth. “Really, you think Cas is a faerie?”

“It would make sense.” Castiel tucks his feet underneath his thighs, grunting with the scrape of dead leaves beneath his bare ankles. “Fae have powers beyond your understanding. Many are just simple forest spirits. Though, that last I checked, I don’t have wings.”

“They could grow in?” Sam says, more of a question than a statement. “This is brand new territory for all of us. Unless an Angel or someone shows up, I don’t think we’re gonna get any concrete answers.”

“Doesn’t matter anyway,” Dean murmurs. Castiel nods in agreement, hands in his lap. It really doesn’t matter, so long as he’s not hurting anyone and he can use his abilities for good, rather than abusing them at every turn. “But really, a pond? How’s that gonna help?”

“It might give him something to do.” Sam turns far enough to grab for one of his prosthetics, guiding his stump into the socket. “Hell, you could start your own flower shop, if you really wanna get creative. I don’t think staying home all day is helping either of you.”

 _Huh_. In the entire year Castiel has lived with Dean, that thought never once crossed his mind. Dean either, based on the look Dean gave him, confusion mixed with wonder and a single question—“That something you’d wanna do, Cas?”

Quietly, Castiel lets out a breath through his nose, turning his closed eyes to the sky. “I don’t see why not,” he says. A daisy sprouts from between his fingers, winding around his wrist. “It might be fun to try something new.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, a smile curls Dean’s lips, highlighted by the sun haloing his hair. Never before has Dean looked so beautiful, every bit as ethereal as Castiel never was. “I’ll think about it, then.”

-+-

Castiel visits a fishery in Cordele a week later, while Sam is in Atlanta for the weekend, presumably meeting with friends. Dean, meanwhile, tags along under the guise of helping, but Castiel knows that he has nothing better to do, with planting season beginning in another week. Either way, Castiel enjoys his company, Dean keeping close while they admire the koi in the various large-quantity tanks, many of them small, while a rare few are over two feet long.

“That thing could eat my arm,” Dean says at one point, eyeing the black koi before them, speckled with white, misshapen spots, including one around one of its eyes.

“I think it’s cute,” Castiel says, placing a hand on the Plexiglas. Almost on instinct, the fish swims towards him, its fins rippling the water in its haste. Maybe Sam was right after all—maybe Castiel really was some sort of faerie, able to communicate with the elements and the creatures that live within them.

Dean nudges his shoulder. “I swear, if it starts talking, I’m gonna lose it,” he laughs, full bodied and rich. Castiel couldn’t look away if he tried.

The pond, after numerous discussions and one night spent drawing senselessly on a lined poster board, is currently dug out in their backyard, sitting close to the tree-line and far enough away from the road to drown out the traffic noise. Not that there are many cars on the two-lane—Castiel counted once in a fit of anxiety, noting at least fifty cars within a ten hour period—but having a quiet space to retreat to would be nice. For Dean, as well, if he could drag Dean out of the house for more than ten minutes at a time. For a man who spent most of his life on the road, Dean doesn’t seem at all determined to leave his home under any circumstances.

It’s their project, though, and Castiel intends to see it through, fish and all. Together, they pick out seven koi, all of varying shapes and sizes, including the black-and-white one that followed Castiel wherever he went, running into the side of its tank several times. “You can pick them up as soon as you’ve completed your build,” the shop owner tells them, her smile never leaving her face. “You should send us pictures. We have an Instagram account that we post all of our customer’s projects on!”

“We’ll do that,” Dean offers with a grin, hands shoved in his pockets. “What kind of rocks do you have?”

Most of the supplies they buy—pond lining and support rocks and formulated dirt and pumps for a water feature—Castiel buys with his own money, won from a scratch off ticket earlier in the month with some remaining from watching their neighbor’s dogs while they traveled cross country for half the year. Dean picks out the larger rocks while Castiel gathers multicolored gravel, adding both of them to their cart, as well as placing a set of shade plants on order to pick up at a later date. How long it’ll take them to put everything together, Castiel has no clue, but it’ll be their project, even after Sam has left for Palo Alto.

“It could be an investment,” Castiel mentions later, while Dean is loading their goods into the trunk of the Impala. Somewhere along the line, Dean replaced the gun rack and salt bags with regular carpet lining, stained in spots from spilled drinks and wet days. Where the contents are, Castiel hasn’t asked; not that he expects Dean to tell him either way. That life is in the past. “If you ever sell your home, this could raise your property value.”

“Maybe,” Dean shrugs. The last bag of gravel placed, they both round their way to the front bench, meeting behind the slamming of doors. Dean turns the engine over; Castiel buckles himself in. “Haven’t really thought about selling it. I mean… Where would we go?”

The word ‘we’ still warms Castiel’s heart, just from the notion that if Dean wanted to pack up and leave, that Castiel would be by his side. Not implied, but a fact. “We could always save up,” Castiel suggests. “Somewhere sunnier, maybe by the coast.”

“Depends on which coast,” Dean chuckles, patting the steering wheel. “Too many bugs on the Atlantic side.”

“Maybe somewhere in California?” Castiel kicks off his tennis shoes. “Or is that too expensive?”

Dean shrugs. “Maybe not in Palm Springs. Don’t think I’m ready to go back to the desert, though. Gotten too used to the humidity here. I haven’t had to steal Sam’s moisturizer since we left Kansas.” A pause. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

Castiel smiles, not even bothering to hide a laugh. “Your secret’s safe,” he assures. “Do you like living here, though? I’ve never heard you complain.”

Deeply, Dean lets out a breath, deflating his chest in the process. “It’s not where I thought I’d live out my golden years,” he says. Turning to look over his shoulder, he reverses out of their spot and pulls back onto the main road, in the direction of home. “But it’s not bad. It’s nice to… have someone here, too.”

The fishery is only fifteen minutes from their destination, more than enough time for Dean to get comfortable behind the wheel and for Castiel to take his one unoccupied hand, threading their fingers together in the empty space between them. “The other night,” Castiel says, softer than he anticipated. Still, Dean listens, his eyes never once leaving the road. “I didn’t expect you to stop me.”

“How long have you been doing… that?” Dean asks, worry plaguing his voice.

Castiel turns his attention out the window, watching the trees pass and the houses float by. “All winter. It was the only way I could feel something that wasn’t existential despair.”

Dean nods, slow, methodical. “Given the chance, would you’ve finished the job?”

Another inhale, another question Castiel doesn’t know if he can answer. Years ago, suicide sounded all too tempting, a permanent escape to his problems with no attachments left behind. At least, attachments that Castiel felt didn’t exist at the time. Now, both Dean and Sam would be forced to mourn for his loss a second time, and Dean would never forgive himself, or Castiel, in the aftermath.

Enticing as it may be, Castiel wouldn’t. Not with the life he’s living, with the life he wants to build, to mend. “I’ve decided that I don’t want to die,” Castiel says, brushing his socked toes together. “I’ve decided that I want to live, if not for myself, then for the people who need me. For the ones I’d leave behind.”

“You deserve to be selfish, though.” Dean glances over to him just briefly, green eyes red-rimmed. “You should live for yourself. Sure, there’s me and Sam, but… You matter too. You gotta believe in yourself and what you are, not base your entire life around someone else.”

“But you’d be here, right?” Castiel asks, unexpectedly sheepish. The thought of being alone now hurts more than ever—what if they separated? What if Dean died in his sleep, or someone stabbed Castiel in broad daylight? Sure, Castiel was immortal to an extent, but Dean only had a few decades left in him, if that. For now, he had to make the best of the time they had together and savor it—returning to Heaven is no longer an option, unless one of the angels takes pity on him. “I don’t want to do this without you.”

Dean squeezes their joined hands. “I’m here,” he says, voice just as steady as his grip. “You got me, Cas. I ain’t going anywhere.”

“We could get married,” Castiel says, offhand—Dean nearly fishtails in the middle of the road. “Symbolically, if you’d want. Just rings.”

In his hand, Dean shakes, his nerves settling as the minutes pass. Castiel soothes him all the while, rubbing his thumb along the top of Dean’s hand. “Just rings? Don’t gotta do a ceremony?”

“We don’t even have to go to the courthouse,” Castiel adds. “I’d like to, though, if you’re willing.”

“Sam’ll cry if we don’t do something, though,” Dean says, upbeat. His fear still rings through, though, eased only by Castiel’s touch. “You wanna take my last name?”

Castiel smiles, closes his eyes to the sun shining through the windshield. “I’d like that very much, Dean.”

-+-

Arranging the liner in the bottom of the pond takes considerably less time than Castiel thought it would, with Dean spending half of one day pushing the material into every divot and crevice he can find. Sam may not be able to sit on his knees, but he helps however he can, placing rocks strategically around the pond to keep both the liner in place and for aesthetic reasons. Together, Castiel and Sam decorate the uppermost pond, with Dean connecting all of the pumps and hoses to keep water filtering from one pool to the next.

After two days of arranging and filling the pond, Castiel decides that he immensely dislikes waiting. When the sun isn’t high, he sits alongside the pool to ensure that nothing is leaking into the surrounding ground, and checks the pH every few hours. Anything higher than 7.4, and their work will all have been for naught, just time spent digging a useless hole in Dean’s backyard with nothing to show for it.

But it works, miraculously. For the next week, Dean lets the pumps run and lets the pond begin to regulate itself, all while they go about their business. Some days, they head into town to window shop or to gather groceries for the next week, and others, they visit one of the few parks in the county or spend time at the river. And in the evenings, long after the dishes are put away and Dean and Sam are dozing in front of the television, Castiel visits their new addition to run his fingers through the waters, letting his energy free whenever necessary to foster life. Like preparing a womb.

They rent a U-Haul the Sunday before Dean heads back to the fields, most of the morning spent loading several large plastic tanks into the bed and unloading them in the front driveway, where Castiel and Dean heft them through the backyard and towards the pond. Sam guides them and tests his newfound ability to walk backwards simultaneously, laughing all the while.

“It shouldn’t be this backbreaking,” Dean huffs once they place the last tub in the grass. All of the fish, strangely, look towards Castiel for guidance, their previously vigorous swimming and thrashing calmed to quiet stares, all of which unnerve Dean and amuse Sam. “They’re fish, how can they be so fat?”

“It’s the water,” Sam laughs. He eases himself onto the ground with his hands and sits, motioning for Castiel to bring him one of the tanks. “Koi don’t weigh that much. Maybe you’re just slacking.”

“I am not slacking,” Dean scoffs.

A lie, one Castiel doesn’t entertain with a laugh; neither of them have done much over the winter, and Dean, much to his distaste, has put on a few pounds around his midsection. Not enough to impact his figure, but just the right amount to make him look healthy, more lived in. Castiel can’t even see his ribs anymore, not like he could a year ago, when Dean was barely hanging on mentally.

No matter how often Castiel eats, though, he never changes. Once, though, he’d like to let humanity guide his physical body, to let himself age or weaken or fluctuate his weight. It would make Dean feel better, probably, knowing he wasn’t dating a perpetual forty-year-old. Maybe Castiel could let his hair begin to gray—a good first step, before anything else.

Pouring the fish into the bottommost tank requires all three of their efforts, mostly to lift the back end enough to tip it over. All seven fish swim in eagerly and relocate themselves underneath the waterfall, away from the lily pads Dean placed, at least for now.

And from what Castiel can tell, they’re happy. In the summer, he and Dean can sit outside and admire them, watch them grow larger and into their tank, just like the three of them. They shouldn’t have to build an overhead shelter with the shade from the pines, but further down the road, they can always add on or even expand. Something to take care of—something to look forward to, even when nothing in the world seems worth living for.

“They’re beautiful,” Sam says, lost in a grin while one of the koi nibbles his finger. “Kinda jealous I can’t get one of these myself.”

“Gotta save up that big lawyer salary of yours,” Dean snickers, shaking his head. “Get you a nice house and a girl, then have all the fish babies you want.”

Sam laughs, full-bodied. Castiel has missed this, more than he ever thought. Having everyone together again, even if it’s just for a few more days, has meant the world to him, has given him the hope that he needed, the strength to see the sun rise through the blinds. _Spring will be better_ , Castiel tells himself, kneeling at the edge of the pond and dipping his fingers into the calm waters. Spring will bring new life and new experiences, and more days he never thought he’d get to live.

More years, more time—all Castiel has ever wanted is more time.

-+-

The night Sam leaves, Castiel and Dean make love until two in the morning, long after the headlights have dissipated on the two-lane and their only company is the owl in the woods, its cry creeping through the walls. In the aftermath, loose-limbed and out of breath, Dean holds Castiel to his chest and breathes into his hair, faintly shivering with exertion and more emotion than either of them know what to do with. It’s nice, though—pleasant, Castiel’s body buzzing in a way that it hasn’t for years, maybe ever.

It’s only fitting that Dean shatters that illusion by speaking, his tone gone soft and hoarse; against Castiel’s chest, Dean’s heart beats, erratic. “I tried to kill myself in the hospital, after they grafted me,” he whispers, pressing a weak kiss into Castiel’s sweat-laden hair. All Castiel can do is listen and wait, and stroke his hand down the curve of Dean’s spine, where he previously clawed and threatened to break skin. “I ripped my IVs out and I tried to pull off everything the surgeons did. Because it all came back to me, just… Pulling Sammy out of there, and then I screamed for you, and you never came. No Angels answered, and I had to… He couldn’t walk, Cas. Sammy didn’t have any feet, and I just drove to Lawrence, and I prayed for as long as I could, that someone’d save us.”

“I’m sorry,” is all Castiel can muster, eyes pinched shut. Still, tears pour free, hidden in the shadow of Dean’s throat. “I can never tell you how sorry I am.”

“I just…” A pause, a deep, rattling sigh. Castiel’s heart hurts just listening to him. “I know you picked up humanity from me and him, but… I feel like I picked up some stuff from you too. Stubbornness, for one.”

Castiel snorts, dovetailing their legs together. “You were already stubborn before you met me.”

“I know,” Dean says, hushed. “But I wanted to… I wanted to help people, like you did. Selfless and all that. You always did the right thing, or what you thought was the right thing, so I just wanted to do right by you, even if it meant living in the middle of nowhere. But… It’s been six years, and I haven’t done one good deed.”

“You still have time.” Leaning up, Castiel kisses him again, until his mouth is sore and Dean has to push him away. Tomorrow, they’ll categorize bruises and smile at each other over their coffee mugs, and the world will just have to wait. “There’s no set calendar for your life, Dean. You can do with it as you wish.”

Dean nods, burying his face in his pillow. “You’re just saying that because you’re older than dirt. Literally.”

This time, Castiel laughs, rattling the bed frame with it. “I’m serious, though,” Castiel says with a breath. “What you do is on your own time. The world is yours, it just depends on what you want to do with it.”

“I kinda wanna… stay,” Dean says, attempting to hide his face. Castiel keeps him visible with a hand to his chin, maintaining eye contact. “I know small towns are cesspools of bad behavior, but… It’s nice here. And I kinda liked Sam’s idea about starting up a flower shop.”

Castiel smiles ever so slightly, kissing Dean’s nose. “Would it be cheating, though, if I used my powers?”

Dean shakes his head, or at least, as much as he can. “Long as the flowers die after a while, no one’s gonna suspect a thing. We just gotta get a business license, find a storefront… It’ll be nice to do something that doesn’t involve uneven tans in the summer.”

“We can always try.” Castiel grunts, sitting up on one elbow. His arm almost falls out from underneath him, exhaustion living in his bones, almost sentient. “If we fail, then we fail together.”

“Speaking of that.” In a flurry of limbs, Dean pulls himself from the bed, baring his nakedness to an audience of one. Castiel watches him idly, the subtle flex of muscles while Dean digs through the dresser and the bruises littering his skin, mottled red spots peppering the inside of his thighs and his nape. “I forgot I had this. Well—I didn’t forget exactly, but I just never told Sam.”

From his sock drawer, Dean pulls out a red velvet box, the fabric burnt black at the edges. Castiel’s all too human lungs fail him the instant he takes the item, popping open the cover to reveal two gold bands, tarnished with age but still brilliant.

To no one’s surprise, Dean starts crying even before he manages to speak. “They were my parent’s. I went back a few months later and got what I could out, and I… I couldn’t leave them there. I didn’t know what I was gonna do with them, but…” He sniffles, wiping his eyes dry as much as he can. All Castiel can do is look at the rings, thumbing over the surface with a trembling hand. “You still wanna get hitched?”

“I’ve never wanted anything more,” Castiel says. Covering his mouth with one hand, he watches Dean take the box and place it between them, retrieving one and sliding it onto Castiel’s ring finger. Snug, but he can always find another finger to wear it on.

“That’s my mom’s,” Dean laughs, brittle. Tears streak his face, but he refuses to wipe them away, too caught in the moment to care. “Dad took all her jewelry with him, and I stole it before he could hock it off when I was sixteen. I lost her engagement ring, I can’t even remember what… God, it’s been so long.”

“It’s lovely,” Castiel says, dropping his hand. He mimics Dean’s gesture and takes the other band, sliding it onto Dean’s ring finger. Finished, Castiel kisses the spot and watches Dean’s eyes flutter, warmth pooling in his gut. “I wed thee, Dean Winchester, love of my life. Sun to my stars.”

Impossibly, Dean flushes even darker, his tears now sobs. Composing himself isn’t even an option now. Plus, Castiel has seen him in worse states. This is happiness—this is pure, unbridled joy, untethered and free. “I wed thee,” Dean starts, Castiel’s hands in his, “Castiel Winchester, love of my life. Stars to my sun.”

This time, when they kiss, Castiel feels Dean’s soul pour free, the love on his tongue cloyingly sweet. Given the chance, and Castiel would delve into his kisses for the rest of his life, just to feel that spark again. As close as he can get, always and forever. “Is this a mistake?” Castiel asks, cupping Dean’s tear-stained cheeks. “Is it wrong to love like this?”

“God, I hope not.” Dean sniffles, his exhale coming as a choked laugh. “God, I don’t ever wanna stop.”

“Don’t stop, then.” Castiel smothers him in another kiss, shoving Dean into the pillows. Dean clings to him, nails raking through enflamed scratches, and Castiel couldn’t care less. “Don’t ever stop.”

“Never.” Near-painfully, Dean clings tighter, sucking a fresh mark to Castiel’s collar. “Couldn’t if I tried.”

Whatever Dean may have to say after that, Castiel kisses out of his mouth and holds on. All he can do, all he’ll ever be able to do, is just hold on.

**Author's Note:**

> Wahoo I finally got this done! Sorry it took forever, I was at Orlando Con recently and I did some touristy things in Florida in the meantime. But I'm home and writing again! I'm currently signed up for the Tropefest 5K and the DeanCas FlipFest, and my Pinefest is posting on March 1st, so there's a lot of things to look forward to the beginning of this year! Thanks for sticking with me for another year, you guys! I love each and every one of you <3
> 
> Title is from the Ashley Monroe song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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